WITH MR. JONES
My Dear Charles,--I particularly wish you to come to me. I want
some legal advice, and I would rather you acted for me than
anyone else. Come up this morning, please.
Your affectionate sister,
BLANCHE.
The above note, brought from Gloucester Place on Monday morning by one
of Lady Level's servants, reached me before ten o'clock. By the
dashing character of the handwriting, I judged that Blanche had not
been in the calmest temper when she penned it.
"Is Lord Level at home?" I inquired of the man Sanders.
"No, sir. His lordship went down to Marshdale yesterday evening. A
telegram came for him, and I think it was in consequence of that he
went."
I wrote a few words to Blanche, telling her I would be with her as
soon as I could, and sent it by Sanders.
But a lawyer's time is not always his own. One client after another
kept coming in that morning, as if on purpose; and it was half-past
twelve in the day when I reached Gloucester Place.
The house in Gloucester Place was, and had been for some little time
now, entirely rented by Lord Level of Major Carlen. The Major, when in
London, had rooms in Seymour Street, but lived chiefly at his club.
"Her ladyship has gone out, sir," was Sanders's greeting to me, when
he answered my ring at the door-bell.
"Gone out?"
"Just gone," confirmed Major Carlen, who was there, it seemed, and
came forward in the wake of Sanders. "Come in, Charles."
He turned into the dining-room, and I after him. "Blanche ought to
have waited in," I remarked. "I have come up at the greatest
inconvenience."
"She has gone off in a tantrum," cried the Major, lowering his voice
as he carefully closed the door and pushed a chair towards me, just as
if the house were still in his occupancy.
"But where has she gone?" I asked, not taking the chair, but standing
with my elbow on the mantelpiece.
"Who's to know? To you, in Essex Street, I shouldn't wonder. She was
on the heights of impatience at your not coming."
"Not to Essex Street, I think, Major. I should have seen her."
"Nonsense! There's fifty turnings and windings between this and Essex
Street, where you might miss one another; your cab taking the straight
way and she the crooked," retorted the Major. "When Blanche gets her
back up, you can't easily put it down."
"Something has gone contrary, I expect."
"Nothing has gone contrary but herself," replied the Major, who seemed
in a cross and contrary mood on his own part. "Women are the very
deuce for folly."
"Well, what is it all about, sir? I suppose you can tell me?"
The Major sat down in Lord Level's easy-chair, pushed back his cloak,
and prepared to explain.
"What it's all about is just nothing, Charles; but so far as Madam
Blanche's version goes, it is this," said he. "They were about to sit
down, yesterday evening, to dinner--which they take on Sundays at five
o'clock (good, pious souls!), and limit their fare to roast beef and a
tart--when a telegram arrived from Marshdale. My lord seemed put out
about it; my lady was no doubt the same. 'I must go down at once,
Blanche,' said he, speaking on the spur of the moment. 'But why?
Where's the need of it?' returned she. 'Surely there can be nothing
at Marshdale to call you away on Sunday and in this haste?' 'Yes,'
said he, 'there is; there's illness.' And then, Blanche says, he tried
to cough down the words, as if he had made a slip of the tongue. 'Who
is ill?' said Blanche. 'Let me see the telegram.' Level slid the
telegram into his pocket, and told her it was Mr. Edwards, the old
steward. Down he sat again at the table, swallowed a mouthful of beef,
sent Sanders to put up a few things in his small portmanteau, and was
off in a cab like the wind. Fact is," added the Major, "had he failed
to catch that particular train, he would not have got down at all,
being Sunday; and Sanders says that catching it must have been a near
shave for his lordship."
"Is that all?"
"No. This morning there was delivered here a letter for his lordship;
post-mark Marshdale, handwriting a certain Italian one that Blanche
has seen before. She has seen the writer, too, it seems--a fair lady
called Nina. Blanche argues that as the letter came from Marshdale,
the lady must be at Marshdale, and she means to know without delay,
she says, who and what this damsel is, and what the tie may be that
binds her to Lord Level and gives her the right to pursue him, as she
does, and the power to influence his movements, and to be at her beck
and call. The probability is," added the shrewd Major, "that this
person wrote to him on the Saturday, but, being a foreigner, was not
aware that he would not receive her letter on Sunday morning. Finding
that he did not arrive at Marshdale on the Sunday, and the day getting
on, she despatched the telegram. That's how I make it out, Charles; I
don't know if I am right."
"You think, then, that some Italian lady is at Marshdale?"
"Sure of it," returned the Major. "I've heard of it before to-day.
Expect she lives there, making journeys to her own land between
whiles, no doubt. The best and the worst of us get homesick."
"You mean that she lives there in--in--well, in a manner not quite
orthodox, and that Lord Level connives at it?"
"Connives at it!" echoed the old reprobate. "Why, he is at the top and
bottom of it. Level's a man of the world, always was, and does as the
world does. And that little ignorant fool, Blanche, ferrets out some
inkling of this, and goes and sets up a fuss! Level's as good a
husband to her as can be, and yet she's not content! Commend me to
foolish women! They are all alike!"
In his indignation against women in general, Major Carlen rose from
his chair and began striding up and down the room. I was pondering on
what he had said to me.
"What right have wives to rake up particulars of their husbands'
private affairs?" he demanded fiercely. "If Level does go off to
Marshdale for a few days' sojourn now and again, is it any business of
Blanche's what he goes for, or what he does there, or whom he sees?
Suppose he chose to maintain a whole menagerie of--of--Italian monkeys
there, ought Blanche to interfere and make bones over it?"
"But----"
"He does not offend her; he does not allow her to see that anything
exists to offend her: why, then, should she suspect this and suspect
that, and peep and peer after Level as if she were a detective told
off expressly to watch his movements?" continued the angry man. "Only
an ignorant girl would dream of doing it. I am sick of her folly."
"Well now, Major Carlen, will you listen to me for a moment?" I said,
speaking quietly and calmly as an antidote to his heat. "I don't
believe this. I think you and Blanche are both mistaken."
He brought himself to an anchor on the hearthrug, and stared at me
under his thick, grizzled eyebrows. "What is it that you don't
believe, Charles?"
"This that you insinuate about Marshdale. I have faith in Lord Level;
I like Lord Level; and I think you are misjudging him."
"Oh, indeed!" responded the Major. "I suppose you know what a wild
blade Level always was?"
"In his early days he may have been. But you may depend upon it that
when he married he left his wild ways behind him."
"All right, young Charles. And, upon my word, you are pretty near as
young in the world's depths as Blanche herself is," was the Major's
sarcastic remark. "Do you wish to tell me there's nothing up at
Marshdale, with all these mysterious telegrams to Level, and his
scampers back in answer? Come!"
"I admit that there seems to be some mystery at Marshdale. Something
that we do not understand, and that Lord Level does not intend us to
understand; but I must have further proof before I can believe it is
of any such nature as you hint it, Major. For a long time past, Lord
Level has appeared to me like a man in trouble; as if he had some
anxiety on his mind."
"Well," acquiesced the Major equably, "and what can trouble a man's
mind more than the exactions of these foreign syrens? Let them be
Italian, or Spanish, or French--what you will--they'll worry your life
out of you in the long-run. What does that Italian girl do at
Marshdale?"
"I cannot say. For my own part I do not know that one is there. But if
she be, if there be a whole menagerie of Italian ladies there, as you
have just expressed it, Major----"
"I said a menagerie of monkeys," he growled.
"Monkeys, then. But whether they be monkeys or whether they be ladies,
I feel convinced that Lord Level is acting no unworthy part--that he
is loyal to his wife."
"You had better tell her so," nodded the Major; "perhaps she'll
believe you. I told her the opposite. I told her that when women
marry gay and attractive men, they must look out for squalls, and
learn to shut their eyes a bit in going through life. I bade her
bottle up her fancies, and let Marshdale and her husband alone, and
not show herself a simpleton before the public."
"What did she say to that?"
"Say? It was that piece of advice which raised the storm. She burst
out of the room like a maniac, declaring she wouldn't remain in it to
listen to me. The next thing was, I heard the street-door bang, and
saw my lady go out, putting on her gloves as she went. You came up two
minutes afterwards."
I was buried in thought again. He stood staring at me, as if I had no
business to have any thought.
"Look here, Major: one thing strikes me forcibly: the very fact of
Lord Level allowing these telegrams to come to him openly is enough to
prove that matters are not as you and Blanche suspect. If----"
"How can a telegram come secretly?" interrupted the Major.
"He would take care that they did not come at all--to his house."
"Oh, would he?" cried the old reprobate. "I should like to know how he
could hinder it if any she-fiend chooses to send them."
"Rely upon it he would hinder it. Level is not one to be coerced
against his will by either man or woman. Have you any idea how long
Blanche will remain out?"
"Just as much as you have, Charley. She may remain away till night,
for all I know."
It was of no use, then, my staying longer; and time, that day, was
almost as precious to me as gold. Major Carlen threw on his cloak, and
we went out together.
"I should not wonder if my young lady has gone to Seymour Street,"
remarked the Major. "The thought has just occurred to me."
"To your lodgings, you mean?" I asked, thinking it very unlikely.
"Yes; Mrs. Guy is there. The poor old thing arrived from Jersey on
Saturday. She has come over on her usual errand--to consult the
doctors; grows more ridiculously fanciful as she grows older. You
might just look in upon her now, Charles; it's close by: and then
you'll see whether Blanche is there or not."
I spared a few minutes for it. Poor Mrs. Guy looked very poorly
indeed; but she was meek and mild as ever, and burst into tears as I
greeted her. Her ailments I promised to go and hear all about another
time. Yes, Blanche was there. When we went in, she was laughing at
something Mrs. Guy had said, and her indignation seemed to have
subsided.
I could not stay long. Blanche came out with me, thinking I should go
back with her to Gloucester Place. But that was impossible; I had
already wasted more time than I could well spare. Blanche was vexed.
"My dear, you should not have gone out when you were expecting me.
You know how very much I am occupied."
"Papa vexed me, and drove me to it," she answered. "He said--oh, such
wicked things, that I could not and would not stay to listen. And all
the while I knew it was not that he believed them, but that he wanted
to make excuses for Lord Level."
I did not contradict her. Let her retain, and she could, some little
veneration for her step-father.
"Charles, I want to have a long conversation with you, so you must
come to me as soon as you can," she said. "I mean to have a separation
from my husband; perhaps a divorce, and I want you to tell me how I
must proceed in it. I did think of applying to Jennings and Ward, Lord
Level's solicitors, but, perhaps, you will be best."
I laughed. "You don't suppose, do you, Blanche, that Lord Level's
solicitors would act for you against him."
"Now, Charles, you are speaking lightly; you are making game of me.
Why do you laugh? I can tell you it is more serious than you may
think for! and I am serious. I have talked of this for a long time,
and now I _will_ act. How shall I begin?"
"Do not begin at all, Blanche," I said, with earnestness. "_Do
nothing._ Were your father living--were your mother living, they would
both give you this advice--and this is not the first time I have
enjoined it on you. Ah, my dear, you do not know--you little guess
what misery to the wife such a climax as this which you propose would
involve."
Blanche had turned to the railings round the interior of Portman
Square, and halted there, apparently looking at the shrubs. Her eyes
were full of tears.
"On the other hand, Charles, you do not know, you cannot guess, what I
have to bear--what a misery it makes of my life."
"Are you _sure_ of the facts that make the misery?"
"Why, of course I am."
"I think not, Blanche. I think you are mistaken."
She turned to me in surprise. "But I _can't_ be mistaken," she said.
"How can I be? If Lord Level does not go to Marshdale to--to--to see
people, what does he go for?"
"He may go for something quite different. My dear, I have more
confidence in your husband than you have, and I think you are wrong. I
must be off; I've not another moment; but these are my last words to
you, Blanche.--Take no action. Be still. _Do nothing._"
By half-past four o'clock, the most pressing of my work was over for
the day, and then I took a cab to Lincoln's Inn to see Mr. Serjeant
Stillingfar. He had often said to me, good old uncle that he was:
"Come to me always, Charles, when you are in any legal doubt or
difficulty, or deem that my opinion may be of use to you." I was in
one of those difficulties now. Some remarkably troublesome business
had been laid before me by a client; I could not see my way in it at
all, and was taking it to Serjeant Stillingfar.
The old chambers were just as they used to be; as they were on the day
which the reader has heard of, when I saw them for the first time.
Running up the stairs, there sat a clerk at the desk in the narrow
room, where young Lake, full of impudence, had sat that day, Mr.
Jones's empty place beside it now, as it was then.
"Is the Serjeant in?" I asked the clerk.
"No, sir; he's not out of Court yet. Mr. Jones is in."
I went on to the inner room. Old Jones, the Serjeant's own especial
clerk, was writing at his little desk in the corner. Nothing was
changed; not even old Jones himself. He was not, to appearance, a day
older, and not an ounce bigger. Lake used to tell him he would make
his fortune if he went about the country in a caravan and called
himself a consumptive lamp-post.
"My uncle is not back from Court, Graham says," I observed to the
clerk, after shaking hands.
"Not yet," he answered. "I don't think he'll be long. Sit down, Mr.
Strange."
I took the chair I had taken that first day years ago, and waited. Mr.
Jones finished the writing he was about, arranged his papers, and then
came and stood with his back to the fire, having kept his quill in his
hand. It must be a very hot day indeed which did not see a fire in
that grate.
"If the Serjeant is not back speedily, I think I must open my business
to you, and get your opinion, Mr. Jones," I said. "I dare say you
could give me one as well as he."
"Some complicated case that you can't quite manage?" he rejoined.
"It's the most complicated, exasperating case I nearly ever had
brought to me," I answered. "I think it is a matter more for a
detective officer to deal with than a solicitor. If Serjeant
Stillingfar says the same, I shall throw it up."
"Curious things, some of those detective cases," remarked Mr. Jones,
gently waving his pen.
"They are. I wouldn't have to deal with them, _as_ a detective, for
the world. Shall I relate this case to you?"
He took out his watch and looked at it. "Better wait a bit longer, Mr.
Charles. I expect the Serjeant every minute now."
"Don't you wonder that my uncle continues to work?" I cried presently.
"He is old now. _I_ should retire."
"He is sixty-five. If you were not young yourself, you would not call
that old."
"Old enough, I should say, for work to be a labour to him."
"A labour that he loves, and that he is as capable of performing as he
was twenty years ago," returned old Jones. "No, Mr. Charles, I do not
wonder that he should continue to work."
"Did you know that he had been offered a judgeship?"
Old Jones laughed a little. I thought it was as much as to say there
was little which concerned the Serjeant that he did not know.
"He has been offered a judgeship more than once--had it pressed upon
him, Mr. Charles. The last time was when Mr. Baron Charlton died."
"Why! that is only a month or two ago!"
"Just about nine weeks, I fancy."
"And he declined it?"
"He declines them all."
"But what can be his motive? It would give him more rest than he
enjoys now----"
"I don't altogether know that," interrupted the clerk. "The judges are
very much over-worked now. It would increase his responsibility; and
he is one to feel that, perhaps painfully."
"You mean when he had to pass the dread sentence of death. A new judge
must always feel that at the beginning."
"I heard one of our present judges say--it was in this room, too, Mr.
Charles--that the first time he put on the black cap he never closed
his eyes the whole night after it. All the Bench are not so sensitive
as that, you know."
A thought suddenly struck me. "Surely," I cried, "you do not mean that
_that_ is the reason for my uncle's refusing a seat on the Bench!"
"Not at all. He'd get over that in time, as others do. Oh no! that has
nothing to do with it."
"Then I really cannot see what can have to do with it. It would give
him a degree of rest; yes, it would; and it would give him rank and
position."
"But it would take from him half his income. Yes, just about half, I
reckon," repeated Mr. Jones, attentively regarding the feather of the
pen.
"What of that? He must be putting by heaps and heaps of money--and he
has neither wife nor child to put by for."
"Ah!" said the clerk, "that is just how we all are apt to judge of a
neighbour's business. Would it surprise you very much, sir, if I told
you that the Serjeant is _not_ putting by?"
"But he must be putting by. Or what becomes of his money?"
"He spends it, Mr. Charles."
"_Spends it!_ Upon what?"
"Upon other people."
Mr. Jones looked at me from across the hearthrug, and I looked at him.
The assertion puzzled me.
"It's true," he said with a nod. "You have not forgotten that great
calamity which happened some ten or twelve years ago, Mr. Charles?
That bank which went to pieces, and broke up homes and hearts? _Your_
money went in it."
As if I could forget that!
"The Serjeant's money, all he had then saved, went in it," continued
the clerk. "Mortifying enough, of course, but he was in the full swing
of his prosperity, and could soon have replaced it. What he could not
so easily replace, Mr. Charles, was the money he had been the means
of placing in the bank belonging to other people, and which was lost.
He had done it for the best. He held the bank to be thoroughly sound
and prosperous; he could not have had more confidence in his own
integrity than he had in that bank; and he had counselled friends and
others whom he knew, who were not as well off as he was, to invest all
they could spare in it, believing he was doing them a kindness.
Instead of that, it ruined them."
I thought I saw what the clerk was coming to. After a pause, he went
on:
"It is these people that he has been working for, Mr. Charles. Some of
them he has entirely repaid--the money, you know, which he caused them
to lose. He considered it his duty to recompense them, so far as he
could; and to keep them, where they needed to be kept, until he had
effected that. For those who were better off and did not need present
help, he put money by as he could spare it, investing it in the funds
in their name: I dare say your name is amongst them. That's what Mr.
Serjeant Stillingfar does with his income, and that's why he keeps on
working."
I had never suspected this.
"I believe it is almost accomplished now," said the clerk. "So nearly
that I thought he might, perhaps, have taken the judgeship on this
last occasion. But he did not. 'Just a few months longer in harness,
Jones,' he said to me, 'and then----?' So I reckon that we shall yet
see him on the Bench, Mr. Charles."
"He must be very good."
"Good!" echoed old Jones, with emotion; "he is made of goodness. There
are few people like him. He would help the whole world if he could. I
don't believe there's any man who has ever done a single service for
him of the most trifling nature but he would wish to place beyond the
reach of poverty. 'I've put a trifle by for you, Jones,' he said to me
the other day, 'in case you might be at a loss for another such place
as this when my time's over.' And when I tried to thank him----"
Mr. Jones broke down. Bringing the quill pen under his eyes, as if he
suddenly caught sight of a flaw thereon, I saw a drop of water fall on
to it.
"Yes, Mr. Charles, he said that to me. It has taken a load from my
mind. When a man is on the downhill of life and is not sure of his
future, he can't help being anxious. The Serjeant has paid me a
liberal salary, as you may well guess, but he knows that it has not
been in my power to put by a fraction of it. 'You are too generous
with your money, Serjeant,' I said to him one day, a good while ago.
'Ah no, Jones, not at all,' he answered. 'God has prospered me so
marvellously in these later years, what can I do but strive to prosper
others?' Those were his very words."
And with these last words of Jones's our conference came to an end.
The door was abruptly thrown open by Graham to admit the Serjeant. Mr.
Jones helped him off with his wig and gown, and handed him the little
flaxen top that he wore when not on duty. Then Jones, leaving the room
for a few moments, came back with a glass of milk, which he handed to
his master.
"Would not a glass of wine do you more good, uncle?" I asked.
"No, lad; not so much. A glass of milk after a hard day's work in
Court refreshes me. I never touch wine except at a dinner. I take a
little then; not much."
Sitting down together when Mr. Jones had again left us, I opened my
business to the Serjeant as concisely as possible. He listened
attentively, but made no remark until the end.
"Now go over it all again, Charles." I did so: and this second time I
was repeatedly interrupted by remarks or questions. After that we
discussed the case.
"I cannot see any reason why you should not take up the matter," he
said, when he had given it a little silent consideration. "I do not
look upon it quite as you do; I think you have formed a wrong
judgment. It is intricate at present; I grant you that; but if you
proceed in the manner I have suggested, you will unravel it."
"Thank you, Uncle Stillingfar. I can never thank you enough for all
your kindness to me."
"Were you so full of anxiety over this case?" he asked, as we were
shaking hands, and I was about to leave. "You look as though you had a
weight of it on your brow."
"And so I have, uncle; but not about this case. Something nearer
home."
"What _is_ it?" he returned, looking at me.
"It is---- Perhaps I had better not tell it you."
"I understand," he slowly said. "Tom Heriot, I suppose. Why does he
not get away?"
"He is too ill for that at present: confined to his room and his bed.
Of course, he does not run quite so great a risk as he did when he
persisted in parading the streets, but danger is always imminent."
"He ought to end the danger by getting away. Very ill, is he?"
"So ill that I think danger will soon be all at an end in another way;
it certainly will be unless he rallies."
"What is the matter with him?"
"I cannot help fearing that consumption has set in."
"Poor fellow! Oh, Charles, how that fine young man has spoilt his
life! Consumption?--Wait a bit--let me think," broke off the Serjeant.
"Why, yes, I remember now; it was consumption that Colonel Heriot's
first wife died of--Tom's mother."
"Tom said so the last time I saw him."
"Ah. He knows it, then. Better not see him too often, Charles. You are
running a risk yourself, as you must be aware."
"Yes; I know I am. It is altogether a trial. Good-day, uncle."
I shook hands with Jones as I passed through his room, and ran down
the stairs, feeling all the better for my interview with him and with
his patron, Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar.